


old lovers in dressing rooms

by seafret (nokomisfics)



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 17:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13012830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nokomisfics/pseuds/seafret
Summary: Like in every badly written telly show, he stills, and his jaw drops.





	old lovers in dressing rooms

**Author's Note:**

> title from the keaton henson song of the same name

Harry is backstage before the encore to have his makeup touched-up, and his shirt is so thoroughly drenched in sweat that Amy who sorts out his clothes for each concert insists he changes into a new one, so he’s standing in front of the rack they’ve wheeled out for him trying to pick one out while Amy dabs powder onto the back of his neck because he rashes there sometimes, and that’s when he spots him. 

Like in every badly written telly show, he stills, and his jaw drops.

Nick looks, at once, different, and exactly the same. He hasn’t yet caught sight of Harry, instead talking to one of the security guys animatedly, seemingly at ease. His quiff is a bit droopy and he’s wearing a shirt that’s more buttoned up than usual - although still not buttoned up enough to be decent - over skinnies that he’s definitely too old to still be using. The security guy looks warily amused by whatever Nick’s telling him, and like he could think of at least three other places he’d rather be.

Harry opens his mouth, but he hasn’t yet thought of anything to say, or even whom to say it to. Amy’s tapping on his shoulder and asking him if he’s picked a shirt yet, so he directs his thoughts at her. “Is that Nick Grimshaw?”

“What?” Amy asks, momentarily confused. Then she ignores him, which is how she usually responds to Harry’s non-sequiturs. To be fair, he is rather prone to them. “Pick out a shirt, love, come on.”

“Harry!” It’s Paul, looking harried. “Hurry up, back on stage in a few.”

Still dazed, Harry picks a shirt at random and thrusts the hanger into Amy’s arms, quickly unbuttoning the one he’s got on and trading it for the other. Then he’s being ushered back to the wings by no less than three stagehands, which feels a bit excessive because he knows he’s got a tendency to wander but he wouldn’t do it  _ now _ , and he still doesn’t know what Nick is doing backstage at his concert. Or in this part of the world at all.

He does his encore performance in the same daze. It’s obvious that his energy has faded, and his audience reels themselves back in, confused at his lacklustre. He stays on the main stage for most of it, only going down the ramp once and immediately running back when the music kicks in. He walks around for a bit to sing at different sections of the crowd, and to talk to them a little, but his mind’s not in it, and least of all his heart. When he says his final “good night, Los Angeles, you’ve been wonderful,” it almost feels like everyone in the room breathes a sigh of relief, most of all him.

Backstage is a commotion of guiding Harry into one of the rooms and ushering in fans who’ve bought meet ‘n greet tickets, and he spends what feels like forty hours signing t-shirts and doling out hugs and smiling for three camera phones at once, and recording videos for friends in Australia and India and New York, and feeling that dizzying moment of vertigo when someone looks up at him, bright-eyed and a little bit teary, to say something mind-boggling like, “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.” He feels stretched out and worn thin as the last of the fans leave the room, and then he slumps into the nearest chair and chugs down half of the water from a bottle Amy brings in for him. She sticks around and smiles ruefully at him as he presses the cold plastic to his cheek, heart finally beginning to beat at a more reasonable pace, and that’s of course when she chooses to say, “Nick Grimshaw’s waiting for his turn to say hello.”

 

-

 

Nick’s leaning against the refreshments table and looking terribly awkward by the time Harry pulls himself out of the meet ‘n greet room to go meet him. He isn’t talking to any of the security guys this time, and the stagehands seem to be eyeing him warily from a distance. Harry’s since finished his bottle of water so he hasn’t got anything to do with his hands except wipe them briefly on his jeans, before extending an arm once he’s close enough and saying, “Hi, Nick.”

It’s evident immediately that he couldn’t have chosen a more stupid thing to do. Nick’s face clearly says the same, if his raised eyebrows and quirked lips are anything to go by. He pushes away from the refreshments table and, after a moment of consideration, takes Harry’s hand in his and gives it a nice, firm shake. “Harry Styles,” he says, in that awfully familiar voice that still, after all these years, makes Harry’s stomach feel like butter. “As I live and breathe.”

“It’s me,” Harry says nonsensically. Nick lets go of his hand and it falls awkwardly by his side, and he has to try his best to not look anywhere but at Nick’s face, although the abstract point over his left shoulder seems to be calling him by name. “Fancy seeing you here,” Harry adds after a pause, into the thick, unfamiliar silence.

“Well.” Nick looks caught off-guard, like he wasn’t expecting Harry to ask. Or wonder out loud, or whatever it is he’s done. Harry’s not used to seeing Nick’s face contort itself in this way, so he’s not quite sure what it means. “I was in the area,” is what Nick settles for, “And heard my favourite popstar had a thing going on.”

“I thought Louis was your favourite popstar,” Harry says, when really he wants to ask if he really had been in the area, and why hadn’t he told Harry in advance that he’d be in the area, especially since he hasn’t seemingly had to time to be in the area for going on five years now. But the words fall away, or feel flat even in Harry’s head; they make him sound petulant and young and nothing like the person’s he’s tried so hard to become.

“Well,” Nick says again, and Harry watches something flash across his face, a series of expressions that he can’t identify, until one finally sticks. It looks a bit like panic.

“Do you want to get a coffee?” Harry asks quickly. He can feel the stagehands’ eyes burning into the back of his neck, and by the way Nick’s been fidgeting on his feet, he knows it’s probably the same for him. And if they’re going to exchange painful, awkward how-have-you-beens and it’s-been-so-longs, he’d rather not do that surrounded by people who aren’t yet contractually obliged to refrain from calling in to  _ The Sun _ .

“Harry Styles,” Nick says with a laugh. “It’s going on half ten on a Saturday night.”

“Is it?” Harry can’t help but smile at the sound, at the warm fondness in Nick’s voice, the scratchy unfamiliarity of it that ignites something terrible in Harry’s chest. He pulls out his phone from his pocket to send a text to Paul, but he can’t manage to take his eyes off of Nick’s face just yet. It’s an awfully pretty face. “It’s a good thing we’re in LA, then, isn’t it?”

**Author's Note:**

> i decided i wouldn't write any more of this and then i made a playlist for it so really who's to say
> 
> comments are greatly appreciated. come talk to me on tumblr @rickshawala


End file.
